My Pet Cow

by Cao Thị Tình

ENGLISH TRANSLATION BY TRINH DO 

Our family had two cows, one with black hide and the other had yellow hide.  We simply called them black cow and yellow cow.  The yellow cow is ordinary.  The black cow was an Indian mix breed. Its hair was short and soft. It was especially clean.  In the pen, it only defecated in one corner, making it easy for my father to clean and take the poop out.  As such, its sleeping place was very clean. On the other hand, the pen of the yellow cow was very dirty.  The black cow loved to take bath. It stood still whenever we poured water over its body to wash. As for the yellow cow, I never came near it for fear of being rammed.  Often, when I came to hug and caress the black cow, it would look at me with kind, loving eyes.  Sometimes, the black cow would slowly lie down on its back so that I can sit on its stomach.  The black cow was intelligent and stronger than the yellow one.  Not only it understood its owner well, it also worked hard and helped us till the soil faster than the yellow one.  My father really treasured the black cow. It was also the animal I loved the most in those hard days when our lives were clouded with uncertainty and darkness. 

When we had to join the local cooperative (Note: farmers in Vietnam after 1975 were often forced to join farming cooperatives under the government’s pretext of increasing the scale and efficiency of rice production.  In reality, it often was a way for local officials to get free use of the farmers’ properties and labor.) , our two cows obviously became public property that any member of the cooperative could use for their farm work. Meanwhile, our family still had to feed and take care of the cows as part of our contribution to the cooperative.  

When other cooperative members took turn coming to our home to take the black cow to work, it often refused to budge.  Other farmers often had to beat it with a stick several times before it grudgingly moved.  Sometimes, when other people beat it too much, it would glare at them with bloodshot eyes.  They became so scared and returned the cow back to us.  In our family, we often joked with each other that the black cow is so “anti-revolutionary” that it revolted against the cooperative.  When I saw it being beaten, I felt so sad and came to hug it so tight.  I thought that the black cow looked back at me with tears streaming down its face.

Eventually, the cow’s fate was determined by the cooperative.  Cows that couldn’t produce would be sold for their meat.  Even though we were the owners, we had no say and had to accept their cruel decision.  A village cadre along with a transport truck was sent to take our black cow to sell it in Cam Ranh. He also brought along his bicycle, so that he could pedal back home after selling the cow.  I wasn’t at home the day our cow was taken away.  My father later told me that the cow refused to get on the truck, no matter how much the cadre beat it with the stick. Finally the cadre ended up walking all the way to the town while pulling the cow with one hand and his bicycle with the other.  No one knew what other “revolting” acts that our cow had done along the way.

It has been many years but I still loved my “anti-revolutionary” cow whenever I reminisced about the days I lived under the socialist regime of the Vietnamese Communist.